


The Woodcroft House

by poison_ivvy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dubious Consent, Everyone Has Issues, Explicit Language, First Kiss, Fluff, Foster Kids AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Orphanage, Panic Attacks, Power Dynamics, Romance, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, orphans in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-10-06 06:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17340506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poison_ivvy/pseuds/poison_ivvy
Summary: When Brooklyn born and bred Steve Rogers is made a ward of the state after his mother's untimely death, he finds himself unwittingly tangled in a world of sex, deceit, and violence. His new home is not what it seems, and Steve suspects that his new roommate Bucky Barnes has more secrets than he has people to tell them to.(aka the orphans in love AU no one asked for)





	1. Ward of the State

 Sarah Rogers died on a humid Sunday afternoon in the middle of August. She passed from sleep into death so quietly and so serenely that even after her body was carted out of the cramped Brooklyn apartment, the silence that had permeated her final days still seemed uninterrupted. The reality of her death didn’t really make a discernable impact on her son Steve until a full week later, when the funeral was over and Sarah Rogers was looking over a grassy knoll in a cemetery that he had barely been able to afford. 

 He had known rationally that she didn’t have long left to live.  But in the weeks before her death; despite being a hostage in her own bed, she had been so full of life that Steve just couldn’t reconcile the idea of his sweet, honest eyed mother with someone who would soon become nothing more than a memory. And now, sitting uncomfortably in the kitchen with a rather hawkish social worker who couldn’t have been less like Sarah Rogers had she actively tried, reality had at last shoehorned its’ way into his life once and for all.

 The reality was that he was a now a freshly minted orphan. And an underage one, at that. He was seventeen and he didn’t have a single person left in the world. Steve blinked back the sudden wave of pain that crashed through his body at the thought, leaving his hands shaky and his stomach knotted.

 “I’m sorry, Ms. Waller, but what are you saying exactly?” he asked the woman sitting across from him on his mother’s favorite chair. She had been talking to him for a while now, but Steve was finding it impossibly hard to concentrate on her words. It was late at night, and everything had taken on the surreal quality of an unpleasant dream.

 “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, son, but until you turn eighteen, you’re officially my responsibility,” she said, sympathetic. “And until you graduate from high school, you can’t stay here by yourself.”

 Steve nodded, avoiding her eyes. “So where do I go?” he asked quietly. He didn’t have any family who could take him in, there was no one left now. The litany of melancholy kept repeating itself in his head, making it difficult to concentrate on anything except the bubbling panic burning in his chest.

 “There’s a home just a couple hours away from here. Run by a company that works very closely with the state. They’ll take you in and after you finish your senior year there, you can go wherever you like,” she said.

 Bree Waller had been a social worker for over a decade now but no matter how many different ways she delivered unwanted news, she found that it was never received kindly. With this in mind, she braced herself before imparting the next bit of information.

 “Steve, I’m sorry but we have to leave tonight. There’s just no other alternative,” she said bluntly.

 Steve looked up, startled. “Tonight? But the funeral was just this afternoon!”

 Ms. Waller nodded grimly, overriding his protests. “Your lease is terminated, Steve, I’m sorry. I’ll give you some time to pack up your things, but after dinner we have to hit the road. The Woodcroft House is expecting us.”  
  


\--

 

The drive upstate passed in a blur. Steve stared out the window aimlessly, his long legs folded uncomfortably in the passenger seat of Bree Waller’s compact car. As their surroundings changed from the familiar cityscape to endless, empty highways, Steve worked hard to tamp down the rising sense of panic.

 He had never lived anywhere else except Brooklyn in his entire life, and he found that he was unsettled by eerie emptiness of open road. The absence of the city’s comforting press of high rises and ceaseless bustle of humanity made him feel unnervingly exposed. He had never thought of himself as possessing an agoraphobic mind, before. Now however, the longer he stared into the looming darkness, punctuated only by the car’s shaky high beams, the higher his anxiety climbed.

 “Is there a rest stop soon?” he gritted out, wrenching himself away from the seemingly endless abyss of the window to face Ms. Waller.

 “Sure, can you hang on for another ten minutes? I’ll take the next exit,” she said, casting a slightly worried look his way. In the darkness of the car, her olive skin seemed ghostly, almost unearthly. Steve had a sudden, absurd vision of his mother’s kind eyes and clear Irish complexion turned translucent by the glare of the street lamps and struggled to fight back a dizzying wave of nausea.

 “Steve? Are you okay?” Ms. Waller was still talking, but he found it hard to focus on her words. “Do you need me to pull over?”

 “I’m fine,” he said, tearing his eyes away from her and the ghost of Sarah Rogers to stare blankly at his lap instead.

 As soon as they pulled over at the next truck stop, Steve was scrambling out of the car before his social worker had even turned the engine off. He winced as his joints popped, unused to freedom after being cramped in the tiny vehicle for so long. Ms. Waller was saying something behind him, about gas or maybe about snacks, but Steve had stopped listening the second he saw the sign for the restrooms around the corner. He stumbled into the cramped bathroom at the back of the Gas-n-Sip, pausing only to lock the door behind him before he fell to his knees in front of the toilet and was violently, horrifically sick.

 Steve emptied the meager contents of his stomach, but bile still rose to the back of his throat. He screwed his eyes shut, unsure and unwilling to find out if the moisture tracking down the side of his face was sweat or tears. Every time he tried to wrap his head around where he was (and why) he felt sick to his very core. Steve didn’t know how long he stayed on the disgusting floor of a truck stop bathroom, but when he finally steadied himself enough to rise to his feet, he was emptied out and hollow in every sense of the word.

 The water gushing out of the grimy faucet was frothy and flecked with rust, but Steve didn’t care. He rinsed his mouth and splashed some on his face, studiously washing his hands twice before daring to look into the burnished steel rectangle that served as a mirror. He looked like hell, there was no two ways about it. His blonde hair was soaked from sweat and clung to his forehead, and his skin seemed sallow and pale under the florescent lights. His mother’s blue eyes looked back at him from his own face, wide and damp and impossibly young despite his otherwise study build. Having grown up as a sickly child, Steve wasn’t a stranger to looking as if he were half a step away from the grave. But it had been a long time since he had felt so truly awful.

 It was such a far cry from the bright eyed, strong person that usually looked back at him that Steve was momentarily breathless with a crushing sense of loss. He was used to being strong for his mother; and accustomed to being buoyed in turn by her love and sense of calm even in the face of the direst calamity. He realized with a pang that in her absence, he didn’t know how to behave anymore. The dreams of going to college to study art and architecture that he had once harbored had fallen by the wayside when his mother had been diagnosed. And once it became clear that this spring would be her last, spending as much time with her as possible had become his only priority. They hadn’t had money or family, only each other. And as the life slowly ebbed from Sarah Rogers, Steve’s own life gradually became smaller and smaller until his entire world revolved frantically around the dimming star that was his mother.

 But his mother was gone, and Steve knew that it would have broken her heart to see his pain now. She had been adamant that he continue to live a life full enough for the both of them. In the moment, he had thoughtlessly promised her that he would. Even now, Steve remembered with detached clarity the numerous times that he had blithely reassured her that he would be alright if only she would stop worrying.

 And now Steve found himself here, alone and sentenced to live amongst strangers for the next year. He stared into his reflection, distorted by the burnished metal, and willed the terrified boy to recede and for his mother’s son to come back.

 An abrupt knocking on the restroom door startled him out of his reverie.

 “Steve? Are you alright?” Ms. Waller called through the flimsy door. She rapped again in quick succession when he didn’t answer immediately. “Steve, I need you to answer me.” Her knocking increased in urgency.

 “I’ll be right there,” Steve called, finally turning the water off.  He paused for one more moment, squaring his shoulders at his reflection and taking a deep breath. Despite being gut wrenchingly sick only minutes ago, he felt marginally better than he had all day. Lighter, emptier; but also more grounded. The burning feeling of pain in his chest hadn’t dimmed in ferocity, but as Steve grabbed a paper towel and dried his hands, it no longer felt as though it were rising up to swallow him whole, either.

 When he finally made his way back to the car he found Bree Waller leaning against the driver’s side of the car, a plastic bag of junk food at her feet and a lit cigarette in her hand.

 “I was getting worried there,” she remarked, looking at him carefully. Despite her casual posture, the hand holding the cigarette was trembling slightly. “You were gone for a long time.”

 Steve pushed a hand through his still damp hair awkwardly, not quite understanding why she would have been so concerned over his brief absence. “I’m sorry,” he said anyways, the instinct to be courteous too deeply ingrained to be suffocated by his confusion or previous distress. “I just needed a moment to clear my head.”

 She nodded in understanding, stubbing out her cigarette with her sensibly heeled shoe. “Listen Steve,” she started, her voice low. “I can’t imagine how hard this all must be for you, but I need you to promise me that if you’ll ask for help if you need it instead of doing something rash.”

 “Sure,” he replied, still mystified by this sudden and uncharacteristic show of emotion from the woman who had previously been kind but still curt.

 She eyed him shrewdly for another long moment before sighing. “I know your life’s been turned inside out, but you’re already seventeen. If you can just hang in there for one more year, you can do anything you want in a year’s time,” she said, visibly trying to sound convincing. She paused for a beat, then reached into the bag at her feet and pulled out a packet of chips and a banged up can of soda.

 Steve nodded, taking the proffered food even though he had no intention of eating. Ms. Waller seemed to take this as a tacit agreement to get back in the car, and just as quickly as it had come, the moment between them was over.

 As they turned back onto the freeway some moments later, Steve wondered just what exactly his social worker’s previous charges had done to warrant such naked concern from the otherwise reserved woman. She had been right about one thing though, he mulled. He was already seventeen. And as much as he was dreading having to live in this strange home with people had never known, if he just kept his head down he could be free and on his own again in less than a year. He would return home to Brooklyn, he decided. Return home, get a job, and maybe even apply to college. Steve resolved that in a year’s time, this entire ordeal would be far behind him; and he wouldn’t even have to spare a single thought to his brief stint at this so-called home for displaced orphans. He just had to get through one fucking year.

 By the time Bree Walker pulled into the winding, graveled driveway of the Woodcroft House some hours later, Steve was exhausted but feeling more tethered to himself than he had since they had left Brooklyn in their rearview mirror. It was the dead of night still, and as Steve got out of the cramped car and shouldered his duffel bag in a darkness undisturbed by any streetlights. Or, for that matter, any signs of civilization. The house itself loomed above them like a silent, forbidding ogre.

  Despite this, Bree Waller strode up the steps leading to the front door and beckoned a hesitant Steve forward as well. The resounding sound of silence greeted the shrill ring of the doorbell. A glance at his watch told him that it was well past midnight. Steve shifted his weight uncomfortably, uneasy with the thought of waking up the occupants of the home up.

 His social worker, however, had no such reservations. She knocked again, pulling back a tattered screen door to rap loudly against the door. A minute passed with nothing to show for it but the sound of crickets chirping in the thick undergrowth that bracketed the edges of the porch steps. And then just as Steve was about to suggest that they double check the address, he suddenly saw light streaming through the crack in the door.

 An older, rumpled looking woman opened the door, dressed in a powder blue robe. She had thin, mousy hair and a lit cigarette in one hand. She eyed them for a moment through black static of the screen door, the moment of silence stretching on until Ms. Walker at last stepped forward.

 “I apologize for the late hour,” she began smoothly. “But I believe you’re expecting us. This is Steve Rogers, he’s your newest resident. Are you Mrs. Marie Greene?” She gestured vaguely to Steve, who gave an awkward wave with the hand that wasn’t clutching his dufflebag like a lifeline.

 The woman behind the door squinted at this doubtfully, exhaling a mouthful of smoke. “When you didn’t show up by supper, we thought you weren’t going to show,” she said, her voice gravelly and mildly accusatory.

 “We apologize,” Ms. Walker repeated, with a hint of frustration. “May we come in?”

 “I suppose you might as well,” the woman said begrudgingly. She swung open the door and gestured vaguely behind her. The front hall was as ill lit as the exterior, and Steve nearly stumbled over a pile of shoes that had been dumped carelessly next to the door.

 “It’s past curfew, so you better get going to your room, Steven,” the woman said, gesturing to set of steep stairs at the end of the hallway.

 Steve, caught off guard, looks helplessly at his social worker. She frowned slightly but gave him an encouraging nod.

 “I’m going to be spending the night at a hotel, but I’ll be back in the morning to make sure you’re settling in okay,” she said. “You should try getting some sleep. I’m sure someone will show you around tomorrow, right?” This last part is directed at the bedraggled looking Mrs. Greene, who nods back absently.

 “Which, um, which room is mine?” Steve asked once it becomes apparent that she’s not going to be volunteering any more information. He pauses uncertainly at the bottom step, wondering how on earth he’s going to find his way through this strange house that seems to have an aversion to allowing in any more light than is strictly necessary.

 “Third door on the left,” she replied. She jerked her head up, and when Steve followed her gaze he was startled to see someone standing at the top of the staircase. He could have sworn there was nobody there a second ago. The boy on the stairs must have been around Steve’s age, with a shock of untidy dark hair and an intense gaze that made Steve flush self-consciously. He cocked an eyebrow down at Steve, and Steve had the sudden feeling that he was being sized up.

 He was halfway up the stairs before he was even aware of moving, and almost missed his social worker’s hushed goodbye on his way.

 “Hey, roomie,” the boy said, leaning over the banister as he watched Steve climb up to meet him.  Steve reached the top of the landing and paused, unsure.

 “Roomie?” he said. The boy smirked.

 “Didn’t anyone tell you? You’re only here because my last roommates bailed on me,” he said.

 “I’m, um, sorry?” Steve said, cursing himself for sounding so clueless. “No one’s told me squat about anything,” he said, frustration creeping into his tone despite himself.

 The boy leaned farther out over the banister, extending one hand with a grin that was all charm. “We can fix that,” he said. “Bucky Barnes, ward of the state.” His voice is sardonic but his smile sincere, and Steve can’t help but smile back as he shakes his hand.

 “Steve Rogers,” he replied. “And I guess that makes two of us.”


	2. No Man Is An Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve tries to cope with his new surroundings. Bucky doesn’t make it easy, until he does.

Steve woke up the next morning to a stream of bright white sunlight trying its’ level best to cook him alive. The curtains in his new bedroom were paper thin, and Steve had at some point in the night twisted himself so tightly around the blankets that he shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was at how suffocating the room had suddenly become, given that he had essentially turned himself into a microwave ready burrito. They may have left the thick, humid smog of Brooklyn behind last night, but summer in inland New York was still nothing to scoff at.

  
As he clawed his way out of the tangle of unpleasantly sweaty sheets and stumbled to his feet, he couldn’t help but notice that the bed across from his very conspicuously missing its’ occupant. Since their brief encounter last night, Steve had seen neither hair nor hide of Bucky. In fact, Steve mused as he wandered out into the hall in search of the bathroom that he was sure was somewhere on this floor, he hadn’t heard so much as a peep out of his roommate at all last night.

Although that may have had less to do with him being an overly considerate bunkmate and more with the fact that Bucky had quietly and cleanly slipped out their window not longer after Steve had settled into bed. Steve wasn’t sure how exactly he had managed to clamber down from their third story window, but the confident ease with which he did left no doubt in Steve’s mind that this was a habit Bucky had spent a not insignificant amount of time perfecting.

  
Having finally located the hall bath, Steve set his mismatched bag of toiletries on the cracked porcelain counter. Rifling around for his toothbrush, he contemplated his new surroundings. There hadn’t been much in the way of a tour last night, given the lateness of the hour. Bucky had led him through the narrow corridors of the upper floor with all the stealth and grace of an alley cat, while Steve had shouldered his duffle and tried not to lose sight of the boy’s lithe, dark frame in the shadows. He had shown him their bedroom; which consisted of two narrow beds shoved into opposing corners with corresponding desks of drawers and not much else, and then pointed out the bathroom down the hall.

Steve had returned from washing up to find Bucky perched motionless on his bed, arms curled around folded knees and his gaze assessing, almost speculative. In hindsight, no doubt trying to judge how likely Steve was to narc on him if he had woken up to find Bucky high tailing it out of there like the world’s youngest cat burglar.

  
Steve was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a snitch. Bucky had obviously felt similarly, if his brazen exit and subsequent failure to reappear were anything to go by. Clearly, he didn’t consider Steve enough of a threat to bother with maintaining appearances. Steve had a sense that if this had happened with anybody else, he would have felt a sliver of anxiety at the thought of living with someone who so clearly and carelessly violated the rules. But there was something about the openness of Bucky’s smile on the stairwell late last night that made him want to give his roommate the benefit of the doubt. He wondered when Bucky would return. Secretive or not, it would be nice to have a friendly face around to help him get his bearings during his first day in his new, albeit temporary, home.

  
As it turned out, Steve wouldn’t have to wait for long before the universe answered his question by the way of sending a sweat drenched Bucky barreling straight into his chest as soon as he opened the door to the bathroom.

  
“Can’t talk, gotta pee,” mumbled Bucky as he awkwardly tried to squeeze past the blockade of Steve’s considerable bulk. There was a couple of seconds of unfortunate flailing of limbs, and he had no sooner stepped out of the way than the door was abruptly slammed shut in his face.

“Good morning to you, too,” Steve said, a small smile curling his mouth despite himself.

  
He meandered back to their room, wondering if Bucky had come back into the house through the window or the front door. He had seemed like he had been running full tilt for a while, dripping in sweat and out of breath. It had been a curiously unsubtle appearance for someone who had otherwise seemed so unobtrusive.

  
But when Bucky came back into their room, he seemed entirely disinterested in Steve. He had changed in the interim, swapping his sweaty clothes for something less noxious. He ignored Steve entirely, leaving the newest edition to the house sitting awkwardly on the bed, unsure how to proceed. Steve would have been lying if he said he wasn’t famished – it must have been midmorning by now and the last time he had eaten he had still been in his mother’s kitchen. But he still would have appreciated some guidance about the lay of the land before he ventured out on his own at Woodcroft.

  
“You wanna get some food?” Bucky asked a moment later, seemingly having read Steve’s mind. Or, more likely, having finally grown tired of listening to his roommate’s stomach growl.

  
“I could eat,” Steve said. Understatement of the century.

  
“The kitchen’s on the first floor,” Bucky said, abruptly standing and making his way out to the stairs. “But the stove smells like burnt garbage after you’ve used it, so we usually just eat in the other room.”

  
Steve understood what he means when they make their way into the kitchen, which looked like it was last renovated in the early 70’s. The stove was a rickety, smoke singed thing hooked up to a tank of propane, which Steve avoided completely in favor of cramming as many slices of bread into the toaster as he could fit.  
Bucky wordlessly poured himself a huge mound of cereal from a slightly damp Kellogg’s box. He leaned up against the counter and started eating right there, leaving Steve to scrounge through the fridge fruitlessly for some time before finally, triumphantly, recovering a carton of orange juice.

  
It has been several minutes since either of them has said a word, and so far, there has been no other signs of life in the house. Steve was discomfited enough that he lets the silence grow, choosing to quietly follow Bucky into the adjacent dining room when it became clear that the cheerful ding of the toaster was going to be the only company to be had in the kitchen.

  
“So who used to live with you before me?” Steve finally worked up the nerve to ask. For a long moment, Bucky was silent except for the loud crunching of his corn flakes.

  
“No one,” he finally replied. “I don’t play well with others.” Bucky gave Steve a wolfish grin over his breakfast, raising an eyebrow as if to challenge him to inquire further.

  
Steve resolutely tried to ignore the way Bucky’s smile made his stomach flip. He had been sure that the previous night Bucky had said something about having previous roommates. But maybe he had misheard. Maybe Bucky had been joking. Or lying.

  
“Then what am I doing here?” Steve asked.

  
“Beats me.” And just like that Bucky was sullen and silent once again, hunching his shoulder and sinking into himself as if the world around them didn’t exist.  
Steve told himself that he shouldn’t take his silence to heart. After all, despite involuntarily sharing accommodations, they were perfect strangers.

  
Steve focused for a while on his food, swigging orange juice and ripping through the stack of so that he wasn’t tempted to fill the quiet with inane chatter. Suddenly, there was nothing he wanted more than to leave this room.

  
He swiped a hand across his forehead, which was beaded with sweat despite the groaning whir of the ceiling fan. The sticky white plastic of the table cloth coupled with the immeasurable mid-June heat pressing down on them made the air unexpectedly suffocating. A faint scent of cigarette smoke lingered in the dining room air, no doubt a leftover memory of Mrs. Greene’s habit.

  
The silence stretched on, punctuated only in staccato bursts as Bucky continued to loudly chew his cereal. Steve took another bite of his toast, only to find it stuck in his throat. It wasn’t normal for it to be so quiet, he thought to himself. Weren’t there at least half dozen other kids in this home?

  
Right now, it felt like maybe the only two people left in the entire world were him and Bucky. And what a fine pair they made. ‘A fine fucking pair of orphans’, a thin, vicious voice in his head echoed back at him. Steve shook his head, trying to subdue the immediate rising nausea that had accompanied that ugly thought.  
“Hey, punk, you don’t look so hot.”

  
Steve looked up to find Bucky staring at him uncertainly, naked concern shining clearly through his pale blue eyes. Had his eyes always been that blue? Steve could have sworn yesterday they had been darker. There was a sudden tightness in his chest that hadn’t been there a moment ago, either, and suddenly panic started to close in on him.

  
“Steve, are you okay?” Bucky half rose from his seat, bowl of cereal forgotten as he stared worriedly at Steve.

  
Steve couldn’t breathe. The air didn’t seem to want to enter his lungs, and he wheezed harshly as he fought to stave off what was dangerously close to becoming a full-blown asthma attack. He didn’t have his inhaler on him, for fuck’s sake, he wasn’t even sure if he had remembered to pack it all. He looked across the table at Bucky, the rattle in his chest quickly taking on a wheezing quality that boded ill for his ability to continue breathing.

  
“Asthma,” Steve croaked out, pushing his chair back so he could stagger to his feet. Getting air into his lungs was fast becoming a mission that required Herculean effort.

  
Bucky leapt to his feet as Steve struggled to stand, hurrying around the table to push him back down.

  
“Whoa, okay, big guy, take it easy,” he said, looking more worried by the second. “Do you have an inhaler?”

  
Steve squeezed his eyes shut and tried to control his breathing. The tightness in his chest was making his heart pound and his hands shake, and the hot, prickly sensation of pure panic was making it hard to focus on anything except his uncooperative lungs.

  
Bucky grabbed his shoulder and shook him. “Hey, focus Steve – where’s your inhaler?” he asked over the persistent wheeze of Steve’s increasingly labored exhalations.

  
Steve shook his head, trying and failing to form words. The sensation of suffocating slowly in his sticky, hot room was unbearable, and he tried again to get out of his seat. Bucky pushed him down again.

  
“Okay, listen, Steve, it’s gonna be okay,” he said, his hand hot as a brand through Steve’s shirt sleeve. “I’m gonna go get your inhaler, alright, just hang on.”  
Bucky was off like a shot, sprinting out of the cramped dining room like the hounds of hell were after him before Steve could find the air to tell him he was wasting his time.

  
How could he have not brought his inhaler? Stupid, so fucking stupid. Steve felt the tightness in his chest grow incrementally, like someone had slid their fist between his ribs and was slowly, sadistically strangling him from the inside out.

  
Last night at the gas station, water had helped to calm him down. And now, without his inhaler and trapped only with an impeding sense of doom, maybe it would be able to help again. With that thought in mind, Steve struggled once more to push himself to his feet and stumbled back into the kitchen. But he hadn’t gotten very far before there was an enormous clatter in the next room. Bucky thundered back down the stairs, skidding into the kitchen with a highly alarmed look on his face.

  
“There you are, shit,” he exclaimed. He was huffing, almost as red faced as Steve from exertion. But he was waving something in his hand, something small and plastic and fuck, how had Bucky managed to find an inhaler that Steve knew full well didn’t exist?

  
In the moment though, it didn’t matter if the medicine had come from Brooklyn or from Satan’s own handbag. Bucky had no sooner pressed the inhaler into his hands than Steve was desperately, gratefully breathing in the bitter mist. Both boys paused for a moment, waiting for Steve to regain his breath.

  
But to his dismay, the rapid rise and fall of his chest was only marginally improved by the inhaler. The tightness in his chest eased mildly, but the choking sense of panic remained. Steve shook his head, finally giving in to the urge to fold onto his knees on the hard linoleum floor.

  
“Steve?” Bucky asked, following him down until they were both couched by the sink. He scooted closer uncertainly, hovering near Steve and hesitantly rubbing a hand between his shoulder blades. “Hey, it’s okay, just breathe.”

  
‘I’m trying to,’ Steve thought hysterically. Black spots had begun to swim in his periphery, making him dizzy as well as breathless. Bucky’s eyes are as blue as the sea on a stormy day and Steve can see his lips moving as he tries to tell him something, but the ringing in his ears won’t let him understand. Why was there no one else in the house? They were miles away from civilization, what was going to happen if he couldn’t breath and there was no one around and he was all alone –

And then all of a sudden, Bucky is grabbing his face with both hands and pressing his mouth against Steve’s in a single, determined kiss. His lips were warm, and his hands were even warmer and Steve’s brain short circuited immediately.

  
For a long moment there was nothing in the world except for the rush of blood in Steve’s head and the pressure of Bucky’s mouth against his own. They were both tense for a heartbeat too long, until Steve relaxed on instinct and Bucky took the opportunity to tilt his head even closer, parting his lips with a soft sigh.  
They parted an immeasurable moment later, and despite or perhaps because of the lack of oxygen, Steve was finally able to breathe for the first time without the crushing sense of terror that had filled him only moments before. He licked his lips despite himself, chasing the taste of sugary cereal and toothpaste.

  
Bucky, who had been pressing Steve firmly against the cabinets under the kitchen sink, leaned back to sit on his heels. There was a flush high on his cheekbones, and his eye were suspiciously bright.

  
“You back with us?” he asked with a small smirk.

  
“That’s not my inhaler,” Steve replied dumbly, too shocked to think beyond the last sixty seconds.

  
Bucky smiled at him, eyes crinkling as he got up off the floor. “I turned your stuff inside out,” he shrugged. “I couldn’t find it, so I borrowed Pietro’s. He moved out a little while ago so I figured he wouldn’t mind.”

  
“Oh,” Steve said, taking Bucky’s proffered hand and clambering to his feet as well. “Thank you. I, uh, I wish I knew why it didn’t help.”

  
“Not sure how much an inhaler can help with a panic attack, Stevie,” Bucky said. He gave Steve a smile that was devoid of all mockery and for half a second Steve forgot how to breathe again.

  
Steve rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously, turning to splash some water on his face so that he could have a moment to get his scrambled brains together. When he turned around, Bucky was perched on the yellowing Formica countertop next to him.

  
“So what are you doing here?” Bucky asked quietly, echoing Steve’s own question from earlier. He coughed, clearing his throat hesitantly. “I mean, how did you end up here?”

  
When Steve didn’t immediately reply, he met his gaze with a contrite grimace. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he added hurriedly.

  
“My mom died,” Steve replied simply. The immediate sorrow that filled Bucky’s eyes was a balm that soothed a raw part of him that he hadn’t realized had been left so exposed. “I came here after the funeral.”

  
“Fuck, Steve,” Bucky trailed off. “I’m so sorry.”

  
Steve shook his head. “No, it’s okay. It wasn’t… it wasn’t exactly a surprise.” Despite himself, there was an irritating lump growing in his throat.

  
“Still, I can’t imagine what that’s like,” Bucky murmured. “Shit, and here I’ve been such a jerk to you, too, huh?”

  
Steve’s mouth twitched in an abortive smile. “Maybe.”

Bucky laughed, meeting Steve’s gaze with a warmth that belied his earlier hostility. “You’re alright, Rogers,” he declared.

  
Whatever Steve intended to say in return, however, got lost in the sudden clatter of the front door being noisily thrown open. The indistinct sound of chatter echoed down the hall, followed almost immediately by a tell-tale waft of Ms. Greene’s cigarette smoke.

  
It seemed as though the rest of the house’s occupants had finally come home.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been mapped out and sitting on my back burner for quite some time, so hopefully new chapters will be added regularly!


End file.
